Excitement gripped him now as he wondered how the black woman would burn.
Americana
The Alien was well pleased with his hotel. The El Drisco, on Pacific Avenue is one of those open secrets. Owned and operated by the same family since the twenties; Eisenhower and Truman had made visits. It sure looked presidential — deep pile carpets, green leather banquettes, crystal chandeliers … Like that. For a moderate arm and leg it’s worth getting the hillside view.
The receptionist had told Fenton the guest rooms were much more reasonable; but Fenton said, ‘I’m only doing it one time. Best to do it right, eh?’
The receptionist agreed that this was indeed a fine method of reasoning. Back in London a similar response would have been dangerously close to taking the piss. Here it was the American way.
In his room, Fenton stretched out on the bed, thought: One or two days to find Stell and kill her … and maybe grab a few days rest and recreation in Tijuana … ‘Yeah,’ he said aloud. ‘I like the sound of that R amp; R …
Fenton liked San Francisco. He was beginning to like it a whole lot. That it’s very much a walking city didn’t hurt, didn’t hurt at all. Twixt cabs, trolley and foot, he got to Fisherman’s Wharf.
The cabbie had said, ‘Yo buddy, a real native is a guy who’s never had eats at The Wharf. You hear what I’m saying?’
The Alien hadn’t quite got into the sheer in yer face dialogue, as if they’d known you always. He answered, ‘Course I hear you … I’m not deaf.’
The cabbie took a look back. ‘English, right?’
‘How perceptive.’
Unfazed. ‘I love the way you guys talk, like Masterpiece Theatre. Everyone talks like that in England, am I right?’
Jesus! ‘Yeah … except for the taxis — they shut it.’
‘That’s like the cabs, right?’
Getting out at the Wharf, Fenton paid, and sure enough the cabbie said, ‘You have a good day.’
‘Whatever.’
Fenton went straight for a bar. He was wearing thin on American goodwill. The barman welcomed him effusively.
Fenton said, ‘Give us a beer, OK?’
‘Domestic or imported?’
‘Fuck.’
Fenton was the other side of three bottles of Bud. Not outta it or even floating, but feeling them, a nice buzz building. He figured he’d do three more then go buy the baseball bat.
An exaggerated English accent cut through: ‘I say old chap, might I trouble you for a light?’
Fenton turned. On the stool beside him was a guy in his bad sixties. Liver spots on his hands and brown shorts, top to accessorise. He had eyes that Fenton could only think of as stupid, ie eager, friendly and open.
Fenton shrugged. He was definitely feeling those beers. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Actually, neither do I–I heard you order your drink and thought I’d give my skills a try. Was I convincing?’
‘As what?’
‘Oh yes, the English humour! I have all of Monty Python, would you like to see my Ministry of Funny Walks?’
‘You’re serious … Jesus!’
‘You might have caught me on Seinfeld, I was the English cab driver.’
Fenton was suddenly tired, the beers wilted, the show winding down. He asked, ‘You’re an actor … act scared.’
‘Scared?’
‘Yeah, as if I’m going to put this bottle up yer arse.’
The man looked full into Fenton’s face and got a hearty slap on the shoulder, with, ‘Hey, that’s not bad, you look like you could shit yerself … I’m impressed.’
After Fenton left the bar, he was entranced by the traffic lights, blinking:
WALK
DON’T WALK
No frills, yer straight command. He kinda appreciated it — reminded him of prison.
A black guy in a combat jacket was handing out pamphlets, shouting, ‘Yo’, homies, see what de fat cats be doin’ wit’ yo’ tax dollars!’
Fen took the booklet. ‘Ain’t my tax dollars, mate.’
‘Say what, homey?’
He was about to sling it as the guy shouted, ‘Yo’ all gots de right to know they be killin’ folk.’
Fenton looked at the pamphlet.
A Study of Assassination.
(A training manual written by the CIA
for distribution to agents and operatives)
He said aloud, ‘No shit!’
And as he flicked through it, he gave intermittent ‘Wow’s, ‘Jeez’, and an outright, ‘I’ll be fucked!’
Under the heading Justification was:
Murder is not morally justifiable. Assassination can seldom be employed with a clear conscience. Persons who are morally squeamish should not attempt it.
Fenton said: ‘You got that right, guys.’
More: It is desirable that the assassin be transient.
Then: Techniques.
A human being may be killed in many ways …
Fenton muttered, ‘Oh really?’
The assassin should always be cognisant of one point — ‘death’ must be absolutely certain.
Call it serendipity or chance, but when Fenton stopped to take his bearings he was outside a sporting goods shop.
Went in.
The music was deafening and he had to recheck it wasn’t a disco. No, a sports shop. He asked an assistant, ‘What’s that noise?’
‘It’s Heavy D.’
‘What?’
‘Waterbed Hev.’
‘I’m going to have to take yer word for that. Why is it so loud?’
‘Most of our clientele are Afro-Americans.’
‘You mean black.’
The assistant ignored this and asked what he could do to help. Fenton said, ‘I want an old style baseball bat. Not metal or some brilliant new plastic or low fat — the basic slugger. Can you do that?’
Four hundred bucks later, he could.
London
Roberts was determined to tell his wife about the skin cancer. At the very least he’d get laid. So … so it would be a sympathy fuck, but who was counting? All the other ails:
dead bank balance
burnt car
nervous job prospects
he’d leave a bit. No need to tip the balance. He was almost looking forward to dropping his health bombshell. Move him centre stage for a few days.
A Big Issue vendor was sporting a spotlessly white T-shirt which declared:
70 % of Prostitutes are Convent Educated.
Roberts said, ‘What about the other 30 %?’
The vendor smiled. ‘They’re the education.’ Argue that.
When he got home he checked quickly to see if his daughter was home.
Nope.
He muttered, ‘Thank Christ for that’. Recently she’d been treating him as if he were invisible … no, scratch that — invisible and annoying.
His wife said, ‘You’re home.’
He was going to congratulate her powers of observation, but it wouldn’t be a loving start. Instead: ‘I have something to tell you.’
She hmphed and said, ‘Well, I certainly have something to tell you.’
Testily, he snapped, ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Oh, if your daughter being pregnant isn’t a priority then of course it can wait.’
‘Jeez … what? I mean, how …?’
‘Well darling, I know it’s been a while, but if you can’t remember how it happens … And she shrugged her shoulders. He couldn’t believe it. Worse, she walked off.
He thought: ‘Skin cancer that.’
To roost
Stella Davis — Fenton’s ex-wife — was loading her washing machine. If she could have known it was the last day of her life, she might have done the wash regardless. It’s highly doubtful she’d have added fabric softener.
Her new husband was a teacher and the most stable person she’d ever met. Even his name — Jack Davis — rang of security. A no frills, no shit kinda guy. Jack was yer buddy, the sort of stand up guy who’d have a few beers and slip you a few bucks if you were hurting. When they devised the ‘Buddy’ system, it was the likes of Jack they envisaged.